


The Other Side of the War

by RecklessDaydreamer



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies (mostly), Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hamilton: An American Musical - Freeform, Past Character Death, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecklessDaydreamer/pseuds/RecklessDaydreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything—the paranoia, the treachery—she still wasn’t safe. She still couldn’t rest. Minkowski has spent too many long years in space, without lights or curtains or music or dancing. Too many years without squishy red seats and printed programs, ticket stubs and standing ovations.</p>
<p>Back on Earth, Minkowski finally gets to see Hamilton and tries to put her life back together. Minkowski's POV, plus a coda from Lovelace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Side of the War

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I just wanted Minkowski to go to Hamilton. It was going to be fluffy and sweet, but then this happened instead...  
> The title is from "Story of Tonight Reprise", from Hamilton. All italicized quotes are from Hamilton (specific songs in the end notes) and by Lin-Manuel Miranda.  
> Rated T just to be safe.  
> This is tagged as an AU because the likelihood of most of the characters surviving and getting back to Earth in canon seems... small, at least to me.  
> Looking back at this, it came out a little more Minkowski/Lovelace than I expected, so, could be read either way.

It’s the little things nowadays.

Minkowski has resolved to do one thing that makes her think of Jamie every day. Today she’s going through the mail that’s sat unopened since three weeks ago. It’s Lovelace’s turn to help her—Hera’s at an AI rights rally and Eiffel is at the job interview the rest of the crew ordered him to attend—and the captain shows up at 9 on the dot. It didn’t take long for them to fall into a schedule—maybe more like a holding pattern, just a way to keep themselves afloat.

Lovelace lets herself in when Minkowski calls, “It’s open.” She’s sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a mug of black tea and staring at the pile of papers that covers the entire surface. By the door, Lovelace hangs up her heavy down coat and kicks off her combat boots next to Minkowski’s running shoes. Minkowski has started running again, even though it’s January and bitingly cold—just the same old paths she and Jamie always took, and never as far as she used to. But it gives her some of her old rhythm, and she needs that right now.

She was a wreck after the accident. She’d escaped the Hephaestus and brought her crew home safe, only to learn that her husband, her Jamie, was dead, killed in a car crash as he drove to the landing site to meet her. They’d parted fine, but Jamie had been upset that she was leaving for so long. More so after all the extensions. And she never got to see him again… Minkowski will always remember the phone call. “Emergency contact.” “Next of kin.” “His wife.” “His widow.” Every word a gunshot in the winter air.

After everything—the paranoia, the treachery, the years spent in space—she still wasn’t safe. She still couldn’t rest.

Lovelace pulls up a chair. “Okay, where do we start?”

Minkowski shrugs. “Maybe just sort everything first?”

Lovelace’s eyes linger on her commander, her friend. Minkowski turns from the glance, which says that she was so strong once, and she’s so broken now. Minkowski doesn’t need those looks. She’s had enough of them in the past weeks.

They work in silence, making stacks of bills, magazines, letters, flyers. They’re all addressed to a man who will never read them.

Lovelace takes all the sympathy notes and sets them aside. She knows that, to Minkowski, they’re hollow words.

When they’re done, the table is covered with stacks of paper. “All right,” Lovelace says. “Do you want to get started going through everything? I’m going to make some more tea.”

This is Lovelace’s strength: her stability, even after everything.  Minkowski can count on the captain to force her to keep moving on. Even after Lovelace’s years in space, her injuries, the things she’s seen and the people she’s lost, she’s so strong. Maybe the shadow behind her eyes was there even before the Hephaestus. Maybe not. But she’s still fighting, even though the grief and stress and anxiety dog her footsteps. Minkowski wishes she was more like Lovelace, wishes she had half the captain’s steel.

She remembers thinking how broken they all are.

Minkowski tried to tell her crew that she doesn’t need help, that they should take some time for themselves, that they already have enough problems of their own. Just like Hera and Eiffel, Lovelace refused. “She needs to be helping people,” Hera told Minkowski. “She’s been an officer for so long that she can’t remember how to be anything else. Having people to take care of gives her something to live for.”

Now Minkowski is alone with the mail, remnants of a life. Lovelace is around the corner making tea, and Minkowski can hear her filling the kettle and putting it on the stove to boil. Slowly, reassured by the easy silence, Minkowski picks up the first letter.

It’s postmarked for the day she arrived. Addressed to Jamie Koudelka. Plain white envelope. Minkowski tears it open.

A receipt and two tickets fall out. Tickets to a show.

Jamie had told her he had a surprise. He sounded so excited—he always loved theater, and especially musicals, as much as she did. They used to sing together, especially the romantic duets, though neither could carry a tune in a bucket. Songs from _Carousel, Rent, South Pacific, West Side Story, The Music Man, Wicked, Phantom of the Opera,_ and—of course— _Pirates of Penzance_.           

Something catches her eye. The date—what’s the date on the tickets?

Tonight. Oh, god. Tonight. They would have been going tonight.

Lovelace comes back with the tea and sees her friend with her face in her hands, shaking with sobs. She hurries over to put an arm around Minkowski. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

It isn’t.

Minkowski turns and buries her face in Lovelace’s shoulder until the tears stop. _Be strong,_ she thinks, _be strong._

“He got tickets, huh?” Lovelace says.

Minkowski nods. Pushes them over.     

Lovelace whistles. “ _Hamilton_. Nice. I’ve heard it’s good. Not cheap, either, even off Broadway. You gonna go?”

Minkowski isn’t going to answer that. Why would Lovelace even ask? Of course she isn’t. Not with Jamie gone.

“Nope,” Lovelace says. “Stop with the self-pity, Renée. It’ll be good to get out and see a show.”

“I get out,” Minkowski says flatly.

"You run alone in the early morning. We should go."

Minkowski would question the “we”, but… it’ll be easier if she’s not looking at an empty seat and thinking of who should be there beside her. She agrees.

They finish the mail together. Minkowski does not cry. Maybe she’s finally shed all the tears she can hold. She feels dry and hopeless inside, at least, like she couldn’t possibly cry any more.

Before she leaves, Lovelace stops and says, “They had the sentencing yesterday.”

Minkowski gave evidence at the trials of the SI-5 agents who took over her station. Her own court-martial case was thrown out on the grounds of reasonable action, as well as on the grounds of public outcry. Every newspaper, every activist, debated her story.

Of course, for every think piece about her, there are ten on Hilbert. Does allying with the crew and taking the bullet meant for Captain Lovelace absolve him? Did he have a “lives of the many” ideology? Was he simply a mass murderer? Nobody can decide—after all, the only person who really knew is now dead.

“Fine,” Minkowski says, shaking herself out of her reverie.

“Just through you’d want to know.” Lovelace attended all the trials and gave evidence at quite a few. “See you this evening. Want me to pick you up? At 7, maybe?”

“Sure,” Minkowski says. “Okay.”

              

They pull up in front of the theater, Lovelace in combat boots, Minkowski in pearls. Minkowski hadn’t worn the necklace in some time. It’d been an anniversary gift from Jamie. She would have brought it to the Hephaestus, but Goddard allotted very little room for personal effects. The pearls are a lustrous white, strung in a thin chain that Minkowski looped twice around her neck and clasped carefully, remembering how Jamie used to do it for her.

The theater marquee is brightly lit. _Hamilton, An American Musical,_ it says in bright black and gold. They accept programs and take their seats. The warm gold glow of the lights relaxes Minkowski, just a little. But she can’t forget that Jamie should be at her side, putting an arm around her shoulders and cracking jokes. Tonight it’s Lovelace, who’s perusing the program with interest and coaxing Minkowski into conversation. Minkowski runs the pearls through her fingers and raises the walls around herself. She learned to hold those walls on the Hephaestus. Maybe she never let them down.

When the show starts, it blows her away. Minkowski hasn’t been to a musical in… well, it’s been years. Too many long years in space, without lights or curtains or music or dancing. Too many years without squishy red seats and printed programs, ticket stubs and standing ovations. She missed this, and she feel a smile growing, warmth in the pit of her stomach. It’s good to be back.

The music is fast, thrumming in her bones. Drums and strings and winds and piano all blend together. The words surround her, certain and confident. Jamie would’ve loved it. Her husband, her sweetheart, her laughing love.

She can picture him there beside her, smiling wide, holding her hand.

Hamilton rises through the ranks of the army. He meets and soon marries Eliza. It reminds Minkowski of the way she met Jamie. Burr can only watch his friend’s success and think of what he’s missing.              

Gunshots crack onstage, and Minkowski flinches. Glancing over, she sees that Lovelace is releasing a shuddering breath, and puts a gentle hand on her friend’s shoulder. _It’s okay. I’m here._ _You’re safe._

Lovelace shoots her a brief, shattered smile.

“ _Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes and it takes and it takes…”_

_Damn right_ , she thinks bitterly.

Minkowski wants to be sad. She wants this to be a remembrance, a memorial. And it is. But she finds herself smiling at Hamilton and Lafayette’s triumphant high-five (“ _Immigrants—we get the job done!_ ”).

The first act ends. During the intermission, she makes small talk with Lovelace. Yes, she likes the play. No, it’s not as good as Pirates of Penzance. Nothing will ever be as good as Pirates of Penzance. Lovelace laughs at that, and Minkowski risks a smile.

When the curtain rises again, the war is over, and things aren’t perfect. (Even after overthrowing Goddard, things weren’t perfect, Minkowski thinks.) Hamilton has an affair with Maria Reynolds, reveals it to the world, finds his marriage shattering, sends his son to his death. When Philip dies, Hamilton’s life crumbles. He moves uptown with his wife, and they try to put themselves back together. Their song is a requiem, but it’s not a dirge. It’s constantly in motion. It forces the characters, and Minkowski with them, to move on.

She’s crying again, goddammit, because Philip’s dead. (Jamie’s dead.) “ _He is working through the unimaginable_.” (She’s working through the unimaginable _._ ) Hamilton is notorious (she’s notorious) for all the wrong things. And yet the show must go on.

Lovelace passes her a pack of tissues.

The election, the duel between Hamilton and Burr, the aftermath: Minkowski feels like she’s floating through it. She remembers Burr’s words: “ _Death doesn’t discriminate between the sinners and the saints. It takes and it takes and it takes, and we keep living anyway.”_ It’s that last part that’s important. Death takes and takes, but we keep living.

Quietly, Eliza takes the stage.

“ _I put myself back in the narrative._

_I stop wasting time on tears. I live another fifty years._

_It’s not enough.”_

If Eliza can do it, Minkowski can do it. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But she can keep living anyway.

She claps so hard her hands hurt.

 

 

Two months later, it’s Lovelace’s turn again, and she takes the elevator up to Minkowski’s apartment. As she nears the door, she hears soft music, accompanied by someone singing more enthusiastically than in tune.

Lovelace quietly lets herself into the apartment. Minkowski is at the kitchen sink, and she’s singing along to _Hamilton_ as she washes the dishes, occasionally throwing in a dance step. Lovelace, who’s become just as obsessed with the show as Minkowski, recognizes the song. It’s _My Shot,_ a revolutionary anthem led by a young immigrant determined to prove himself. The lyrics fit Minkowski; there’s something warm in her voice. “ _Hey yo, I’m just like my country, I’m young, scrappy, and hungry, and I’m not throwing away my shot!”_

When the song ends, Minkowski pauses the music and joins Lovelace at the kitchen table. She noticed when Lovelace entered, of course; none of them ever stopped staying alert. (Lovelace knows Hera hasn’t let anyone so much as look at her personality core, and Eiffel checks the locks on the doors and windows before he sleeps.)

Lovelace doesn’t bother with a greeting. “Big news. Eiffel got the job!” Eiffel applied for a technician’s job at the local radio station (with some assistance from Hera, who guilt-tripped him into attending the interview).

“Really?”

“Yeah, and he says drinks are on him tonight, if you want to come.”

“That sounds great, actually. Where?”

“He says he knows a place on 45th.”

“Is it like the last place?”

“He says this one’s perfectly fine. Multiple exits, decent lighting, and he and Hera figured out a way for her to interface with his phone.” Lovelace doesn’t add, _So it won’t cause any of us a panic attack._ Minkowski hears her perfectly.

“He’s doing well,” Lovelace says. “Did you see the interview he did last night?”

“Mm-hmm. Did you tell him to do that?”

“Talk you up? No. That was all him.”

They chat over tea: black, with milk and honey, the way Minkowski always makes it. She drinks it almost constantly. Lovelace prefers coffee, but she guesses that tea is familiar to Minkowski, that it makes her feel like she’s home. So she doesn’t complain. She’s even coming to like tea herself, though to her it always tastes a little like sadness.

“How’re you doing?” Minkowski asks.

“Better,” Lovelace says, and she’s surprised to find that it’s true.

Lately, the rest of the crew has been showing up a few days a week instead of nearly every morning. The visits help them, too: give Eiffel a commitment, keep Lovelace centered, remind Hera of the rest of the world. They all get dinner or go to a bar once a week. Minkowski took everyone to Pirates of Penzance.

This closeness, which they pretended was just to support Minkowski, is fading. Minkowski is thinking of teaching at the Air Force academy once the dust clears (she flatly refused to speak to the NASA rep who offered her a job). Hera has been spending more and more time in the supercomputer network of Silicon Valley, and now Eiffel has an honest nine-to-five job. Lovelace saw an ad for a position coaching basketball at a New York college the other day. The world is wide, and they’re growing slowly apart. But now she thinks they might be okay.

The dishes are washed, and the laundry is folded. The pictures on the walls are straightened, including a new one showing simply a clean-shaven man whose smile is huge and gleeful. There’s a clean smell in the air, like lemongrass and spring flowers. All the curtains are open, and the apartment is full of light.

It’s the little things nowadays.

**Author's Note:**

> The Hamilton quotes I used in order:  
> "Death doesn't discriminate"-- Wait For It  
> "Immigrants-- we get the job done"-- Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down)  
> "He is working through the unimaginable"-- It's Quiet Uptown  
> "I put myself back"-- Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story  
> "Hey yo, I'm just like my country"-- My Shot


End file.
